


Studies in Human Anatomy (Or: The Joys of Reciprocation)

by MegaBadBunny



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dominant Rose Tyler, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22560280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaBadBunny/pseuds/MegaBadBunny
Summary: “Sorry,” Rose says, eyes at half mast, teeth biting into her lower lip in a way that suggests she actually isn’t very sorry at all. “Didn’t want to wait any longer.”
Relationships: Metacrisis Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Comments: 7
Kudos: 98





	Studies in Human Anatomy (Or: The Joys of Reciprocation)

He’s just starting to nod off (his head leaden and heavy, his breathing lulled into a deep and steady rhythm by the comforting drone of zeppelin-engines, his eyelids subjected to a special gravity all their own, and what human rubbish is this anyway?) when Rose shifts, lifting her head from his shoulder so she can lean in and press her lips to his for a long, full kiss.

It isn’t particularly surprising, not the timing of it, nor the intensity; it was only a few weeks apart, but it was a long few weeks, on different teams with different missions in a different country, action-packed agendas misaligned like the teeth of a broken zipper. Of course they’d share a deep and passionate kiss the second they had a quiet moment to themselves (the zeppelin-cabin may not be the most traditionally romantic of places, but it is at least empty of other people for the time being). The Doctor figured a good snog was in order—not that he was looking forward to it or anything, not that he was counting on it, certainly, no. Totally concentrated on the mission, he was (never a wayward thought about held hands or bubbly laughs or soft kisses in his mind, no sirree bob). So no, he’s not surprised, not even a little bit, not even when Rose opens her mouth to deepen the kiss.

(He is, however, deeply grateful.)

Rose pulls back just enough to catch her breath, sighing against his lips. “God. Let’s never do that again.”

“What?” asks the Doctor in mild alarm. “The kissing?”

“No,” Rose chuckles, and kisses him again, as if to illustrate her point. “The separate-teams-thing, the not-seeing-each-other-for-weeks thing. It’s bollocks.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and he must be getting sentimental in his old age (even in this young body) because the next thing that leaves his mouth (quite without his permission, he might add) is, “I missed you.”

Rose’s lips quirk in a smile as she kisses him, firmly this time. “Me, too,” she says softly, and amidst the sleep-fog in his head, the Doctor isn’t half-tempted to get a little cheeky with her ( _How much did you miss me?_ he thinks of asking, partially to backtrack from any hint of vulnerability, but mostly because he knows she’ll roll her eyes and laugh at him), but it turns out he doesn’t have to say anything after all: she answers anyway with another kiss, her tongue glancing over his lower lip as her mouth opens hot and wet against his.

Funny, it’s sort of difficult to be cheeky when she’s snogging him like that.

(How awake is she right now, anyway? How is she so much more alert than him? Unfair, that’s what that is. But he’s not complaining.)

Pushing the armrest between them up and out of the way, Rose presses closer to him, softening his lanky angles against her lean curves, steadying herself with a hand on his shoulder as she deepens the kiss. Instinctively, his hand flies up to cup her by the jaw, to stroke her cheek with his thumb, to just touch her however he can, because the kiss is lovely, wonderful and warm and slick and tasting of Rose, but the Doctor needs more, more skin, more slick, more _her_. He’s spent a month wandering the desert and didn’t realize how very parched he was until now, after his first sip of water in what feels like years. His tongue brushes against hers over and over again, dipping into her mouth like a cup in a well; he wants to drink her up, drink her in; he wants to drown.

Rose must feel that same potent want because she’s gasping for breath but she won’t stop kissing him and her hand is clenching his shoulder so tightly the Doctor can feel her fingernails digging in through his oxford and jacket. Her hand drags down, over his chest, nails raking him through his shirt until heat blossoms in the pit of his belly, and between that and the length of her pressed against him and the urgency in her kiss and the fact that it’s been weeks since they last saw each other, therefore weeks since they last had sex, the Doctor can feel himself flushing beneath his collar and his trousers are starting to feel just a little too tight and suddenly sleep is the last thing on his mind.

(It occurs to him that he probably should have found the privacy to masturbate sometime in the last month. In his defense, there was _science_ to do.)

“We should, erm,” he says, or tries to say, because Rose’s lips on his jaw and her hand trailing down his abdomen toward his trousers are _very_ distracting. “We should probably. Erm.”

She loosens his belt, her teeth grazing his throat, and the Doctor swallows, loudly. There’s no denying the effect she’s having on him, dim-lit though the cabin may be; if anyone were to pass through (and they could, at any moment), they would definitely see him straining against his zipper. _We should stop_ hovers on the tip of his tongue, but Rose’s tongue disagrees, laving over his pulse point; the Doctor isn’t the only one dying of thirst, he thinks. 

Still. They really should stop.

(Shouldn’t they?)

“Shouldn’t we?” he asks weakly.

“Tell me to stop,” Rose murmurs against his throat, and the Doctor’s toes curl in his plimsolls as she gives his Adam’s apple a good suck, palming him below through his trousers, “and I will.” 

As if he can be expected to think clearly when she’s touching him like _that_. (Except he is thinking clearly; he is clearly thinking all sorts of things, like _God_ and _Yes_ and _Please don’t stop, don’t you dare_.)

Rose strokes him through his trousers, the friction hot and firm and delicious even with his trousers and pants between his cock and her hand, and after a few moments her clever fingers slide the zipper of his trousers down, down, down, oh-so-delicately over his straining erection. The front of his boxer briefs is already the littlest bit wet, clinging to his cock so that each and every detail of the head protrudes through the damp fabric. It’s almost more obscene somehow than if Rose had slipped him free of his pants, which she immediately does.

Oh, he should tell her to stop. She said she would.

(He knows she would. He doesn’t dare say anything.)

It’s sheer torment, resisting the urge to thrust into her hand while Rose teases him, her teeth on his throat as her fingertips glide feather-light over the shaft of his cock, up, down, up, down. Her thumb swirls over the head, gathering the moisture swelling up fatly at the tip so she can close her fist around him, gliding slickly downward, her hand sliding along with ease. The Doctor bites his lip to keep himself from panting and Rose responds by biting down on his throat, just hard enough to make him gasp at the braided twin sensations of pleasure and pain. He should tell her to stop—he’ll have a mark on his neck in the morning if they’re not careful; even if no one spots them doing this, here, tonight, anyone who sees him tomorrow will know what they’ve got up to. Rose sucks on the spot afterward and the Doctor decides he’s been meaning to give turtlenecks a go anyway.

Amidst the thunder of his pulse in his ears and the persistent chorus of _yes, please, yes, please_ echoing in his head, the Doctor shifts in his seat, the better to touch Rose—he’s just—he’s got to—he needs more, more of her warmth in his hands, more of her skin pressed to his, more _her_ —but Rose is being frustratingly stubborn and won’t budge, kiss-lick-sucking against his neck and throat while she strokes him below. So the Doctor settles for snaking an arm between Rose and the seat-back, looping it snugly about her waist, clutching her to him as he surrenders control and lets the bliss and warmth roll over him in waves. Pleasure starts building up deep inside, that wonderfully torturous pull-push-slide swelling deep at the base of his spine as Rose jacks his swollen and dripping cock, and fuck, he hasn’t got long now, the dam is going to burst at any fucking second, he should tell her to stop before he makes a mess of himself, but it all just feels so bloody fucking _good_ —

“ _Rose_ ,” he says weakly, panting, and he tries to tell her to stop (or to keep going, faster, harder, bugger the mess, he’s got clean pants and trousers to change into and he’ll clean himself and the seat before anyone notices and it’s doesn’t matter anyway because he’s so close he can taste it), and Rose responds by scooting back in the seat so she can lean over and slide her mouth over his cock. The Doctor gasps at the feel of her lips closing around him, scrabbles helplessly at the wall next to him as Rose sucks him off, her mouth gloriously hot and wet and _tight, fuck_ around his head and shaft. Trembling in anticipation and restraint, the Doctor forces his hips not to thrust, no matter how much they want to, no matter how much he wants to fuck Rose’s perfect beautiful mouth, and she rewards him with a gentle squeeze and a devastatingly hard wet suck that absolutely ends him. The Doctor’s eyes slam shut so tightly he sees stars and he clamps his free hand over his mouth to stop from shouting as he shoots off in Rose’s mouth, coming with all the subtlety of a lightning strike. Clutching desperately at Rose’s waist, the Doctor pants helplessly as Rose works him down through the spasms and the aftershock, swallowing him down.

A bliss-filled haze floods the Doctor’s head and he watches, numbly, as Rose kisses his hipbone before sitting up in her seat, her smile positively minxlike. Her lipstick is just the littlest bit smudged and the Doctor suspects that he’s going to discover suspiciously kiss-shaped little red calling-cards in all sorts of fascinating places on his person, later.

“Sorry,” Rose says, eyes at half mast, teeth biting into her lower lip in a way that suggests she actually isn’t very sorry at all. “Didn’t want to wait any longer.”

The Doctor lets out a quiet laugh and presses a swift kiss to her mouth. “No complaints here,” he says, tucking himself back into his trousers.

“Hmm, didn’t imagine there would be.”

“Cheeky,” the Doctor mutters, chuckling, before pulling her in for another kiss, deeper this time. He hums at his taste on her lips and her tongue and decides a nice round of reciprocation is in order (because even if he’s bone-tired, that doesn’t mean she is, and he loves touching her and _loves_ making her come, and she more than deserves it, goddammit); slowly, he shifts his focus, trailing down to kiss her jaw, her neck, her throat. Rose sighs happily, leaning back against the seat as the Doctor lavishes attention on her collarbone and the join of her shoulder. It isn’t until he reaches up with every intention of untucking her shirt, pulling it free so he can tease her breasts properly, that the Doctor notices Rose stifling a yawn.

Hmm. Looks like he isn’t the only sleepy one, after all.

“Cheeky and rude,” the Doctor teases, and Rose rolls her eyes, and neither of them mean it. “How am I supposed to return the favor when you’re half-falling asleep?”

“I dunno,” Rose replies with a sleepy grin, and there’s no disguising her yawn this time as she stretches, catlike, and curls into his side. “Guess you’ll have to blow my mind another time.”

With a tired smile, his eyes growing heavy-lidded once again, the Doctor shrugs out of his jacket and tucks it around Rose, chuckling. “Guess I will,” he says, with a yawn of his own. “It’s a date, Rose Tyler.”

And she’s already asleep.


End file.
